She seemed on the point of explaining, then shook her head. ‘You don’t want to hear our troubles.’
‘If I can help …’
‘You can help me by not associating with Mr Faraday or any of his dubious acquaintances. I’d like to be able to talk to somebody untainted by the world they inhabit.’
‘Well, I don’t know any of these people. If that qualifies me as untainted …’
She pressed two fingers briefly against her forehead. ‘I feel so alone, Guy. Aunt Vita means well, of course, but she doesn’t understand. Papa’s gone. And so has Max, to all intents and purposes. It’s so hard, so very hard, to keep any kind of grip … when there’s no-one to turn to …’
She seemed on the verge of tears. Moving to mask her from the rest of the room, I squeezed her hand and smiled reassuringly as she looked up at me. In her eyes were fear and hope and grief, commingled in uncertain appeal. She hardly knew what she was asking and I hardly knew what I was offering. Yet a question was silently put and an answer implicitly given. ‘Whenever you can’t bear to be alone, Diana … Whenever you need a helping hand …’
‘Bless you, Guy.’
‘I do mean it. Whenever.’
And so I did mean it, for the instant her gaze was fixed upon me and for the minutes after, when we stood only inches apart and I could study her flawless beauty and imagine, even then, less than an hour after her father’s funeral, what it would be like to peel the black rustling fabric from her pale fluttering body.
But the charms of the flesh are less durable than the lure of riches. I had let Diana believe I despised Faraday as much as she did. Yet when, as the gathering broke up and I took my leave, he hovered beside me in the porch for the briefest of words, I did not refrain from listening.
‘I spoke to Mr Gregory about you, Mr Horton. He’d like to meet you in less restrictive circumstances. His offices are at thirty-eight Parliament Street. Why not call there after the week-end and make an appointment? I’m sure you wouldn’t be wasting your time.’
I made no reply, but the address was firmly lodged in my memory when I climbed into the Talbot and drove away. I had given Max ample opportunity to explain what he wanted of me and he had spurned it. The time had come to revert to what I had always felt was my true métier: self-advancement.
6
A MISERABLE WEEK-END amid the bridge sets and gossip schools of the Eccleston was sufficient to confirm me in the opinion I had formed in Dorking. There was nothing I could do for Max and nothing, apparently, that he wanted me to do. Shame and remorse for the part I had played in his downfall faded as the values which had stood both of us in good stead for the past ten years reasserted themselves. Since I could not help Max, I would concentrate on helping myself.
My first and foremost step in this direction was to seek an interview with Maundy Gregory. Evidently he valued Faraday’s opinion, for I was invited to call on him within twenty-four hours of making contact. Thirty-eight Parliament Street proclaimed itself as the headquarters of the Whitehall Gazette, but I regarded it as certain that many more discreet and profitable activities than the publication of a society magazine took place within its walls.
Gregory’s office was a baroquely furnished room cluttered with signed photographs of celebrities and enough electronic gadgets to support a spy-ring. It was the cocktail hour and he dispensed Martinis with glad-handed enthusiasm. I felt an immediate loathing for everything about him – the egg-shell charm, the wafts of cologne, the dandyish dress, the monocle, the rings, the voice; and especially the hungry fish-like eyes. But I had worked for loathsome people before without regretting it. I did not anticipate we would ever need to like each other.
‘Charnwood’s murder is a frightful business, Mr Horton.’
‘Perfectly awful.’
‘But Mr Faraday tells me you have displayed impressive powers of diplomacy in coping with its consequences.’
‘I’m glad he thinks so.’
‘Which means you may be suitable for the sort of work in which I always require assistance. Delicate work, you understand.’ He smiled. ‘But highly remunerative.’
I too smiled. ‘Exactly my line of country.’
‘Good.’ He surveyed me for an instant, then said: ‘I’m the publisher of Burke’s Landed Gentry. You know it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, its centenary is approaching and I’m having the contents completely revised. The editor and his staff are checking every entry for accuracy.’
‘A considerable task, I imagine.’
‘Indeed. And also a sensitive one. You see, I look upon the publication as more than a work of reference. I look upon it as the servant of those whose lives it chronicles. The revision should be an opportunity to acknowledge merit and to encourage its proper reward. In those cases, our approach must be tactful in the extreme. There are some who deserve adornment to their title and status and who require our advice on how best to obtain it.’
‘You mean there are some who might hope to be elevated to Burke’s Peerage, Baronetage and Knightage?’
He permitted himself a chuckle. ‘Succinctly put, Mr Horton. There are some who justifiably hope. And for those who are also prepared to defray the not inconsiderable expense involved in such matters, there is much we can do. Confidentially, of course. Negotiations, if they are to be taken forward, must be handled with the utmost discretion. Which is why I prefer to employ one or two hand-picked representatives for the purpose and to leave the editor and his staff entirely out of it.’
‘I quite understand, Mr Gregory. I believe I could be very helpful to you in taking the necessary soundings.’
His smile broadened into a sickly beam. ‘Yes, young man. I believe you could.’ I did not care for the phrase young man as he pronounced it, but this was hardly the time to explain which of his vices I did not share. ‘Supposing I were to select one or two … candidates … for you to approach, how would you set about it?’
‘A preliminary letter, I should think, suggesting we meet to discuss revision of their entry in Burke’s Landed Gentry and related matters, followed by a telephone call to arrange such a meeting.’
‘Just the ticket. Take along a copy of the Whitehall Gazette. Last June’s, for example. There’s an excellent photograph in it of the Derby Dinner I hosted at the Ambassador, featuring enough dukes, marquesses and viscounts, not to mention cabinet ministers, to persuade even the most sceptical of what may be achieved on their behalf.’
I nodded eagerly. ‘Then, if they seem interested, lunch … at the Ambassador, perhaps …’
‘… Where I could exchange a few passing pleasantries with them …’ he mused.
‘… While I mentioned the sort of sum that might be necessary to oil the relevant wheels.’
The beam had compressed Gregory’s eyes into slits. He rose from his chair, walked round to my side of the desk and patted my shoulder. Looking down at the stubby fingers, each sporting at least one glittering ring, it was all I could do not to shudder. ‘I think ours will prove a fruitful association, Mr Horton. Would you care for another Martini?’
By the end of the week I had despatched two letters to specimens of the landed gentry identified by Gregory as possessing the ideal combination of spare cash and social ambition. At the beginning of the following week, I proposed to contact them by telephone. I was keen to take matters forward, since, until money changed hands, there would be no commission for Gregory – and no sub-commission for me. But I had to be patient. Such monkeys would be caught softly or not at all.
While I was kicking my heels over the intervening week-end, I received two visitors at the Eccleston. The first, hideously early on Saturday morning, was a police constable whose arrival provoked a flurry of curiosity among the other residents and knitted brows of disapproval among the staff. He served me with a subpoena to appear as a witness at the inquest into Charnwood’s death, to be held at Dorking Magistrates’ Court on Wednesday the sixteenth of September, then t
ook his leave.
I had known it must happen, but still I felt depressed at the prospect of stating publicly what I had reluctantly concluded: that Max had murdered Charnwood. The coroner might let me off without being explicit on the point, but at the back of my mind I feared Hornby would take steps to ensure he did not.
I was on the point of trying to walk off the gloom into which such thoughts had dragged me when my second visitor arrived. It was Diana, flushed and exhilarated after a fast drive from Dorking in her Imp. She had honoured the sunny morning with a flower-patterned dress and a skittish almost feverish air, as if rebelling against the stale confines of bereavement.
‘Papa wouldn’t have wanted me to mope behind the blinds at Amber Court on a day like this. I had to get away. And I thought of you, worrying about the inquest. I suppose you have been notified?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Then come out with me and let’s try to forget our troubles – if only for a few hours. It may be a vain effort, but …’
‘It’s worth trying, Diana. You don’t have to convince me.’
She smiled. ‘Good. Jump in and we’ll go wherever the whim takes us.’
The whim took us to Hampton Court, where we strolled in the Great Fountain Garden and debated whether Henry the Eighth had loved any of his wives. To Weybridge, for lunch in a pub beside the river. And then to Sandown Park for an afternoon of enjoyably profitless betting on any horse that took Diana’s fancy. For six or seven hours we entertained each other with idle chatter, excluding all mention of her father, of Max, of the state of Charnwood Investments, of the inquest at which we would both appear in eleven days’ time. She seemed happy, almost carefree, and, to my dismay, I realized that I did too.
Dusk found us walking along the Bishop’s Walk beside the Thames at Putney. Our parting was imminent and I detected regret on both sides. Had it not been for the metaphorical shadows that outreached by far the real ones gathering about us, I would have slipped my hand round her waist and stolen a kiss. But our different obligations to the same man held us apart. As we turned back towards Putney Bridge, I commented on the delights of the day without daring to suggest they be repeated.
‘It has been delightful,’ Diana replied. ‘I’ve been harried by solicitors and accountants since the funeral. Papa left his affairs in some disorder, it seems. And I can’t let Aunt Vita shoulder the burden alone. But I really did need to escape for a while. Thank you for rescuing me.’
‘You rescued me, actually.’
‘Did I?’ She smiled. ‘Well, perhaps you’ll return the compliment.’
‘How?’
‘I have two tickets for the ballet next Tuesday. Alexandra Danilova’s dancing at the Alhambra. I was planning to introduce Max to the pleasures of—’ She stopped, realizing she had spoken his name aloud for the first time that day. When she resumed, her voice had dropped almost to a whisper. ‘You don’t have to come, Guy. You don’t have to put on any kind of show for my benefit. If you’d rather we just went our separate ways … and tried to forget …’
I pulled up and, as she turned to face me, took her hands in mine. There were tears glistening in her eyes. I felt a jolt of desire more fanciful men might have thought transcended the physical. And I felt also a wrench of doubt. Perhaps it was better to sunder our links. From this point on, I would be consciously betraying Max. And I would be deceiving Diana, for the untainted status I had claimed after the funeral was forfeit now I had struck terms with Maundy Gregory. It was scarcely likely she would hear I was on his payroll, of course. Even supposing Faraday wanted to tell her, he would have to admit his own role as Gregory’s recruiting agent in order to do so, which would not suit his purpose at all. Nevertheless, it was not wise, not prudent, not sensible in any way. And yet she was so beautiful. To touch more than her hand – to gain possession, however briefly, of so much beauty – was an irresistible prospect. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late to withdraw your invitation,’ I said with a grin. ‘I will accompany you to the ballet. Whether you want me to or not.’
And so my double – or triple – life proceeded. The recipients of my two letters agreed to see me. One of them, a Northamptonshire boot and shoe manufacturer whose ambitious wife had transplanted him to a Tudor pile in Middlesex, rose to the bait. Lunch at the Ambassador was followed by tea at Gregory’s flat in Hyde Park Terrace. Discussion of a knighthood and a payment of ten thousand pounds moved forward in delicate tandem.
Meanwhile, I escorted Diana to the ballet and dined with her afterwards at Gatti’s. The following Saturday, we drove to Brighton, where we toured the Royal Pavilion, lunched at the Metropole and watched the white horses rush past us on the pier. The pretence that we could isolate ourselves from what had happened and what had yet to happen was intoxicating. While we were together, we existed in a bubble of Diana’s desperate gaiety, sustainable just so long as I did not test whether she would yield to me or not.
Contact with my family was confined to a joint visit to Felix arranged by Maggie. She probably regretted making the effort, because poor Felix seemed quite overwhelmed by such mass attention and retreated into his shell. Our ever-sensitive father filled the void with a peroration on the wonderful example set by the King in giving up fifty thousand pounds from the Civil List to alleviate the government’s financial problems – the price, I could not help calculating, of approximately five knighthoods. My father said nothing, either at the hospital or afterwards over stewed tea and stale buns in a St Albans café, about the inquest he knew to be pending. Royal examples were to be praised ad nauseam, his son’s problems studiously ignored. Along with his daughter’s, I might add, since Maggie, in common with every other teacher employed by the state, had just had her pay cut by fifteen per cent. Studying her harassed and distracted expression across the fuggy interior of the café, I silently vowed to make up the difference with whatever I earned from Gregory. At least then the honours system could be said to have done some good – however inadvertently.
I heard nothing from the Wingates or from Chief Inspector Hornby. There had been, I assumed, no more letters from Max and no sightings of him, in London or elsewhere. I thought of him often, especially at night, and sometimes varied my route back to the Eccleston to see if he was keeping watch in the square. But he never was. Once, walking along the Strand in the early hours of the morning, I saw somebody who looked rather like him about thirty yards ahead of me. This time I did not call out. Instead, I followed him for some distance, only to lose his trail in the passages under Adelphi Terrace. Picking my way past the curled forms of drunks and down-and-outs sleeping in archways under scraps of sacking, I wondered for a chilling moment if this was where Max had taken refuge. But, if so, he was beyond my help. And by the next day I had convinced myself that I was mistaken; it had probably not been him after all.
Two days before the inquest, I received a letter from Diana. We had agreed to behave in court as if we knew each other only slightly and to meet afterwards at an hotel in Reigate to discuss the outcome. But our plan, it appeared, had been overtaken by events.
Amber Court,
Dorking,
Surrey.
13th September 1931
Dear Guy,
Our secret outings have been a great source of consolation to me in recent weeks. They have given me more pleasure than I thought I would ever know again. But the problems from which I have taken refuge with you are remorseless. They cannot be wished away. Indeed, they are about to multiply. I cannot say more in a letter, but I do so want you to understand. Will you call here on Wednesday after the inquest instead of driving to Reigate? I can explain everything then. Do not worry about Aunt Vita. I have reconciled her to our friendship. Please come. It is very important.
Affectionately yours,
Diana.
I puzzled over this for several pointless hours. How could the situation have become worse than it already was? And why meet at Amber Court, with Vita on hand – reconciled or not – to hamper our freed
om of speech? There was, of course, only one way to find out. But this fact made the uncertainty no easier to bear.
Dorking Magistrates’ Court was filled to overflowing on the morning of the inquest. The coroner, who bore a marked resemblance to an army surgeon I had encountered in Macedonia, looked as if he preferred sparser attendances. But the ranks of the press and public were not to be denied their mouth-watering insight into a sensational murder. They had been looking forward to this day as much as I had been dreading it.
Chief Inspector Hornby greeted me with his usual brand of irksome affability, then went into whispered conference with the clerk of the court. Vita and Diana arrived to a murmurous chorus from the public gallery; I pretended not to notice. There was no sign of the Wingates, who had evidently decided not to attend. For this small mercy I was duly grateful.
Proceedings commenced promptly at ten thirty. A jury of local stalwarts was sworn in and the first of five witnesses called. This was Diana, whose softness of voice and grace of bearing made a marked impression on the coroner. She described the events of the night without flinching: her change of heart about the elopement; her father’s departure to keep the appointment with Max; his failure to return; the search for him; the discovery of his body. The coroner offered her the court’s sympathy and she walked back to her seat in an eloquent hush. Vita followed her into the box and confirmed what her niece had said from the point of view of a brisk and unaffected spinster equal to anything. The coroner congratulated her for waiting alone in the dark with her brother’s corpse and her reply – that she had only done her duty – elicited mutters of approval on all sides.
I was called next. As soon as I admitted being Max’s friend, I detected a cooling in the atmosphere around me. In his absence, I had become the surrogate villain of the piece. The coroner, meek and mild in his approach to the ladies, turned suddenly curt and severe.
‘Did this escapade not strike you as grossly irresponsible, Mr Horton?’
‘No, sir, it did not.’
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